I'd love to have a tea with Jackman

In the two days leading up to April this year, I was beside myself. Well, I wish I had been beside myself so the self who was beside me could stay at home in Port Hedland whilst the other 'I' was freed up to tootle down the road to Karratha for a BFAT (A Bloody Freaking Awesome Thing).

You see, Hugh Jackman's publicist had liaised with the West Australian tourist industry to secure him a beach, for one day only, outside Karratha, called Hearson's Cove. The purpose? Why, to film the next in his series of extraordinarily delicious Lipton Iced Tea advertisements.

I thought the proposition ideal. The beach is a long, shelly stretch in a wide bay. The sun is imminently blue. The sea (when it is there, as opposed to when it is out two kilometers, according to local tides) is persistently warm.

Thus, when it came to the Friday morning of his ad. shoot at the commencement of April, all Karratha was abuzz and abussing its way out to this beach. Yet I was more despondent than a Britney fan who'd thought they were going to get live Spears for their splash of cash. And the only way I could cope was by going shopping. First, it was to the homewares store in Port Hedland where I spent over $100 on several items I absolutely did not need. Then I did the grocery shopping, spending $437 on food, drink, vegies and random homebrand appliances. An interesting venture given that I'd just done that week's grocery shopping the morning before.

By lunchtime, having ached my way through the morning, eaten four hot cross buns, crunched up a packet of triple choc biscuits, slurped a bucket of icecream, masticated several bags of chips and drunk six mugs of Lipton Tea, I had nothing left to do but write this poem.

Hugh and Cry


Not lying, I’m crying,
upon the floor I’m dying
and thinking, stop blinking,
mascara splodges inking
my face which is blotchy
and dribbly, blubbery, splotchy.
I’m sitting with icecream,
a bucket, topped with whipped cream.

My spoon I am slurping,
the wine’s made me start burping,
the Tim Tams are crumbs now
with me slumped in my pow wow,
crosslegged and moaning,
‘Oh woe is me,’ I’m groaning.
The morning, a heartbreak,
I’ve made a dreadful mistake.

Why did not I jump on
that bus and get a move on
from Hedland southwest where
Karratha had its coup there?
Hugh Jackman, oh heck, man,
he’s there today, so why am
I sitting here dribbly,
my guts all wobbly wibbly?

To Hearson’s he travelled,
his secrets to unravel
of dancing, so sexy,
with looks which do perplex me.
And right now, he’s sipping
his Lipton’s tea and dripping,
no doubt with his shirt off…
Oh I am such a nuff nuff.

I’m foolish, schoolgirlish,
and somewhat maybe churlish.
Oh bottom! It’s not fair!
OH WHY AM I NOW NOT THERE?!
So here now in Hedland,
my head and heart in bedlam,
I’ll sit here without cheer
for hours with a sore rear.

The phone rings, it bring brings
at midday and this voice sings:
‘How funny! How stupid?
Can you believe they took it?!
To think that they bought how
Hugh Jackman would be here now
and dancing and singing
down on the beach, hearts ringing.”

I listened, I shivered,
my bottom lip it quivered.
I blushed in the hush and
tried simply to be offhand:
‘Indeed yes, how crazy!
Who’d be sucked in so hazy?
Hugh Jackman, oh haha,
come up to see Karratha.’

And quickly, quite sickly,
I said goodbye all prickly.
And looked all around me;
my purchases astound me.
In woe I’d gone shopping,
the credit card hot hopping.
And that makes me coolish –
FIRST PRIZE Ms April Foolish!



Copyright Elise Batchelor 1st April 2011

Who would you invite to dinner?

Cate Blanchett and I go way back. In fact, our lives bear so many parallels it's beyond the beyond to believe. First, she went to high school in Melbourne, as did I. It so happened we attended the same bottle green clad girls' school, albeit, at different campuses and in different years. We both did drama, although she was Drama Captain and I was just full of drama. Or full of it in general. I'm sure you'll also appreciate the confluence of my first and her middle name. She has a sister - I have a sister. We are both non-natural blondes of the thin and frustrating Australian variety and I'd go to her stylist if I could afford it. Cate too, like me, contemplated performing on 'Red Faces' for Hey Hey it's Saturday during uni. The only difference there was that she did appear in an act on 'Red Faces' and I didn't. Finally, I love her work. And I'm sure she worships mine. Who doesn't love a poet whose pen leaks with odes to failure and stuff ups and who lives in a desert mining town in the remote and forgotten (yet financially fricking freaky) north west of Australia?

Should I go on? Oh...I already have.

Suffice to say, were I to select a select selection of much admired thespians and humbly invite them to a party, Cate would be among them. Funny I should mention this idea. For, in fact, I did do this recently, in honour of Johnny Depp's birthday. Some came, most were happy to remain for the duration, all left in one piece and no one died. Or so I believe.

Who would you invite to a celebrity dinner?

Here's my take on a night with some favourite stars. So, pull out your maracas and your Happy Boy harmonicas (just as Andrew Collins and Rachel Fountain did as we performed this on air at the ABC) and sing it loud, ok!

Guess who's coming to dinner?

Didn’t we have a lovely time

the night they came to di-nner

sitting a-round my table grand

and all because they agreed, you know that

as we sat, I pondered that

I’m surprised they came at a-all -

little old me at a dinner par-tee as they

had their feed.

There he sat in his party hat,

a patch upon his e-eye.

Nothing was wrong, he was jollied along

because he liked the look, you know his

makeup too my ba-a-lance threw

but such is the way with thes-pians.

Tried not to blush or talk in a rush as we

had our feed.

Mu-ust now mention he spoke French and

none of us had a clue-hoo.

It was his night and to my delight

it didn’t matter whatever his patter so

we chatted on, and smiled along,

pretending we understood-ood, he

ate like a sparrow but sucked out the ma-rrow

of his feed.

Cate to my left was beautifully dressed

in a little bit of lame.

She, you see‘d gone to school with me

(or not exactly but down the road).

Beside me she sat, I told her that

we had a lot in co-mmon.

She winced a tad but oh I was glad as she

had her feed.

After the goose, before the moose,

I asked if Hugh might si-ing.

Maybe a dance, or shirtless prance

beside my ‘lectric keyboard and he

stuttered a bit, called me a twit ‘n

I smiled and sipped my cham-pers,

wishing I’d had maracas to share as he

had his feed.

GaGa was there, enjoying her fare,

dressed up as choc dipped duck-ling.

Into the mood, her look matched her food

and though she wasn’t invited I had

little choice but to hear her voice

when Hugh declined to si-ing.

Banging on with some mo-nster song when she’d

had her feed.

Clive to my right, was quite a delight,

all rugged British ac-cent.

So not behavin’, a little un-shaven,

winking at me constantly,

until he grabbed a hanky, dabbed his

eye a little swo-llen:

an allergy to my goosey ragout when he’d

had his feed.

But I didn’t mind, he’d found the time

to come and that was lo-vely.

If and when I’d poi-soned him,

I checked my medicine box in case and

offered him anti-hystamine

and found him rather grateful,

cursing away at my dinner par-tay as we

had our feed.

Then as we dined, was candles time

and out I turned the li-ights.

Brought out a cake, make no mistake,

a pirate ship with treasure on it.

Cla-apped and banged, to Jo-o-hnny sang and he

blew the candles fierce-ly,

blu-ushed and laughed, curling up his moustache and we

had our feed.

The night as you’d guess, a fine success,

a birthday party per-fect

and when I unchained them,

unre-strained them from their chairs,

‘twas all forgiven.

Possibly, maybe, looks a bit shady,

taking off their handcuffs,

but wow, and phew, they’d

loved my stew and farewelled

their feed.

Cate trotted out, a goddess with clout,

followed by the o-thers.

Mr O-owen’s eye was growing.

Off to the doc, but you know that my

Johnny, sweet chap, with his party hat,

sailed off holding his trea-sure:

lo-o-lly bag to add to his swag,

au revoir indeed.

Didn’t we have a lovely time when we

had…our…feed!

Elise Batchelor June 2010

Photo: Katharine Whitehead